


Adventures in Culinary Wooing

by jontinf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Cooking, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jontinf/pseuds/jontinf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Morgana attempt to cook dinner for a sick Gwen, leading to an impromptu conversation (or non-conversation because they’re Pendragons) about their love lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Culinary Wooing

**Author's Note:**

> Rubberglue and I attempted to write for a big bang challenge in 2012 and failed spectacularly. We decided to publish some scenes that could be fic on their own. This bit is part of my contribution. 
> 
> The summary for the fic (it's terribleness I apologize for ahead of time):
> 
> When Merlin, an unlucky in love matchmaker is hired to find Arthur a match which will make Uther happy, Arthur grows close to Merlin's flatmate and watch repair shop owner, Gwen, as Merlin finds himself falling for Morgana, who is recently estranged from Uther, though on good terms with Arthur. Also hijinks, intrigue, paintball... Lancelot!
> 
> *
> 
> In this scene, Gwen’s come down with measles, while Merlin’s sent away to meet another client looking for a lost love (Gaius looking for Alice!), and Arthur volunteers to care for her. Morgana drops by to care for Arthur and ensure that he doesn’t unwittingly kill her with his cooking.

“Merlin told me you were cooking.” Morgana eyed him skeptically.

Arthur looked protectively at the stove as he held open the door and then over to Gwen’s room, where she was sleeping. He whispered proudly. “I’m making my world famous risotto.”

She pulled up a relatively large paper bag and shook it suggestively. “I have Persian.”

“No, thanks.” He closed the door in her face and strode back to his cooking.

Undeterred, Morgana let herself in and followed him into the kitchen, takeaway in tow. “It’s poor form to poison sick people, you know.”

Arthur looked over the pan, hands on his hips, putting on his most convincing facade of authority. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody can die from risotto.” His resolve faltered as his eyes shifted over to the uncooked chicken. “Can they?”

Morgana tilted her head self-righteously. _Do you really want to risk finding out_?

After seconds of presumably deep thought, he continued on cooking, or “cooking.” It seemed that he didn’t mind risking it.

Morgana leaned against the counter, elbows on the top, nibbling on bread and surveying the ingredients, all fresh, brightly colored and carefully measured into glass dishes. It certainly looked like a legitimate operation.

“Should I shake the pan?," he asked her, "I always saw Rosie shaking the pan.”

“You don’t even like risotto.”

“Gwen likes it.”

Morgana looked at him with an expression of pity and pride, as though he were the last child in class to finally figure out how to spell his own name. Arthur didn’t appreciate it. “Oh, come on. Why is it always cause for celebration when I’m nice?”

She picked up a little jar for saffron and playfully examined it. “Gwen’s different though. Isn’t she?”

“What do you mean?”

“Merlin’s running around trying to find you an heiress to marry, when you’ve gone and fallen for his very middle class flatmate.”

Arthur’s hands soared exasperatedly into the air. “It’s just— risotto.” The word budged out of his mouth, as though his sheer indignation made it difficult to pronounce. “I’m not hiding any engagement rings in it.”

Morgana watched his hands fall back to his hips, his looming over her like a cross matron. Apparently, Arthur’s approach to cooking like Rosie was becoming Rosie.

She grinned. “No, that would make it more edible.”

“Look, I have enough going on in my life, thanks to you,” he took the spatula and pointed it at her. “Gwen’s just a mate.”

Arthur and Morgana often spoke to each other as though the other were the most inane, dim-witted person on the planet—it could be argued that both of them have been guilty of that at certain points in their life.

“Anyway.” He eyed her suspiciously. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You still with that guy? Alvarr or whoever.”

Arthur knew his name very well. He had the man investigated to the point that he knew how much he weighed, his blood pressure, what foot he preferred to step into the shower with.

He just liked to act like he didn’t know. Of course, Morgana knew all this.

She shrugged. “Nope.”

“Well, you were too good for him anyway.”

“True,” she said, trying to sound as impervious as possible. The reason that she and Alvarr didn’t work out, among various other unsavory reasons, was that he’d been seeing another woman, an “old flame,” as if that justified it. Or was it she was the unwitting other woman? In any case, it turned out that Morgana wasn’t too keen on that sort of thing.

The most memorable part were the screaming matches she and Uther had over Alvarr, with Morgana boasting about him as a better man than Uther could even dream of being. She was so proud of herself for finding someone so unlike him, so unlike Arthur even.

Arthur cocked his head to side, grin hanging off the corner of his mouth, how he always looked when he thought he was about to say the most brilliant thing that had ever been said. “You know, I thought that Merlin fancied you.”

Everything about her froze, hands stiff at her side, even her expression, mouth kind of agape, half-smiling, half-terrified. More than half, actually. She turned away from him.

Arthur patted her on the shoulder like he did the lads on the football field, a gesture full of self-satisfied affection. “Of course, I knocked some sense into him and told him to find someone on his level.”

She looked up at him, the whites of her eyes disappearing under narrowed dark lashes. Arthur’s smile fell. He had not exactly expected her to react like this. She was to supposed to laugh.

She should have laughed, not have been so obvious, but of course, short fuses, hit nerves and suddenly she was punching him hard in the stomach, making him double over with a winded oof!

He looked like he was having post-traumatic flashbacks to when they were both ten and cooped up in a room together with the chicken pox. It was not long after her parents’ death, when she was angry at everything, and the only way she knew how to interact with Arthur was to rebuff every attempt he made at friendship. She didn’t want a new brother. There was no silver lining, and she would not make the best of the situation. She wouldn’t give the universe the pleasure.

Then they got sick together, an experience that ultimately bonded them, despite themselves and a tumultuous first few hours when to this day, Arthur attested that Morgana tried to smother him in his sleep.

He clutched his sides, groaning, “Remember what we discussed about using our words, Morgana?”

“That’s for meddling in my life, you git. His level?”

Arthur stood up, a flash of guilt sweeping his face, because, really, he didn’t have anything against Merlin, certainly not over something like how much he had in the bank, which he was almost certain were sad cartoon moths and an action figure collection.

“I don’t mean—” he sputtered, “I mean, he wouldn’t deserve you.”

“You don’t deserve Gwen, and that hasn’t stopped you.”

He opened his mouth, but then nothing. That hit a nerve, and he was doing a marginally better job at masking it, just rolling his eyes at her, like she was the one being childish, and then returning to push rice from one end of the pan to another with the spatula. The thing was she didn’t quite feel like pursuing the matter any further either.

In some sense, they weren’t that different at all.

*

When it was time to add the vegetables and meat, Arthur gave in. The rice was already burning, which was his own damn fault because he was too impatient too cook it at a lower heat—or so Morgana told him, when she was just as oblivious about food preparation as he was. They were both schooled to run multi-trillion dollar global corporations, but basic modern living skills were riddles that were so easy to ignore when there was takeaway sitting on the counter like manna from the heavens.

He took the opportunity to blame it on her and how he couldn’t cook properly when she was looking over his shoulder like that.

As she started to lift a container from the paper takeaway bag, and he disposed of his science experiment of a meal, almost out of nowhere, he broached the subject again, hunched indifferently over the bin, simply asking, “You don’t like Merlin, do you?”

She made a point to shrug, laugh even, that overdue dismissive laugh. “No. Of course not.”

*

Morgana knew Arthur expected her to leave before the meal actually started. She didn’t hold it against him, having intended to leave, but only after toying with him a little bit, pretending to get comfortable, getting out an extra plate for herself, offhandedly saying, Oh, but the lamb stew’s my favorite!

But then Gwen had been so completely happy to see her when she had checked on her just before Arthur threw in the towel with the cooking. Almost too happy, Arthur had suggested sheepishly. And by the time the menu had changed, all three of them were having dinner together in Gwen’s bed, watching a documentary on Jane Goodall and the Tanzanian jungle, Gwen in the middle, and Arthur surreptitiously sending Morgana daggers behind Gwen’s back, occasionally throwing a wrapper or something her way. Somewhere squished in the mix was a teddy bear with soft jet black fur and a pink bowtie that Merlin had given Gwen to make her feel better. In typical Gwen fashion, she named it after him.

On telly, Jane returned to Tanzania, looking down from an airplane at a somewhat sparse but still beautiful and green landscape, her voiceover gently reflecting on the naïve, degreeless, young girl that she was in 1960 on her first visit.

_Just pencil, a notebook and passion. And look what’s happened. I mean, isn’t it magic?_

Morgana scoffed. Is that all it takes? Gwen smiled at the line, tiredly, maybe even with a hint of reserve, but still with a spark in her eyes. She was the kind of person who believed that sort of thing, or at least, thought it was possible in the world, even if not for herself.

Then there was Arthur, quietly watching, smiling too—seriously smiling, if that were an actual thing. Sometimes it baffled her how he managed to muster up this quietly wide-eyed outlook on life, so separate from his father and everything that had happened in their lives.

That was the thing about Arthur, Morgana realized. The only person he needed to be to get a girl like Gwen was himself.

*

Merlin called after his car broke down on his way back from Cornwall. She pictured him, tie loosened, shirt untucked and looking bewilderedly under the hood of the car with thick smoke undulating out like she’d seen in films, and yes, she was secretly pleased that he had called her.

She thought it best not to tell Gwen the full details, her flatmate being stranded on the side of the road, instead claiming that Merlin would be coming home at a later hour because of work and she really needed to be getting home herself.

Gwen didn’t quite believe her, shooting a vaguely indignant glance her way over being lied to, but then just nodded, having also resigned herself to the fact that whatever it was, it was hopefully going to be handled by morning.

Arthur’s face twitched in effort to hide the big grin itching to burst onto his face and the thought of his sister finally leaving the room. It was Ann Jenkins and the summer of 2000 all over again.

He walked her to the door, his handing her a container with the rest of the lamb stew, holding her coat as she shimmied into it and then whispered into her ear, “I think it’d be brilliant if you liked him.”

Her eyes became big, as though he’d just told her the filthiest, most shocking joke that he knew.

He smiled, little dimples taking shape at the sides of his mouth, just so annoyingly pleased with himself.

“Not that this is me giving my approval or anything.”

She sharply tugged at the lapels of her coat, trying to look at him sternly, unflappably. “Good. I don’t need it.”

“Well, that’s why I’m not giving it.”

She muttered ‘idiot’ under her breath, which is when she heard him say come here (as though she had a choice in the matter) and found herself in a headlock, an actual honest-to-God headlock by a man who clearly never matured past the summer of 2000.

Morgana poked him hard in his side. “Oh, shut up.”

“Thanks for the food.” He hugged her with an arm in a way that tightly pinned both of hers to her body and then edged her out the door. “Now go save your man.”

*

“I hate myself a little bit.” Gwen groaned softly as she lay on her side and idly dragged her fork across her plate. “I haven’t done anything today, and I didn’t do anything the day before that, and I probably won’t do anything tomorrow.”

“You have measles.” Arthur sat up against the headboard next to her, legs crossed and playing with the paws of the teddy. The television was turned off.

“You don’t understand, Arthur. It’s a slippery slope. What if I like it?”

He made a face. “Having measles?”

“Not doing anything. Laziness. What if I get used to it? I’ll never get anything done again.”

He stifled a smile, a habit he’d taken up when he was near her, and then coughed “Nutter.”

“You are,” she smirked. “Truth is I miss the shop.” She turned to him, looking like she’d just said something that warranted being made fun of, like she wasn’t supposed to miss the shop. The shop was the enemy and tedium and drudgery and things folk singers warned you about. Or maybe that was his job. Still he knew what she meant.

“We’ll be back when you get better.”

Arthur blinked.

He hadn’t meant to say ‘we.’

Well, that was awkward. Who talked liked that? Physical trainers and maybe motivational speakers and he supposed heads of state addressing their nation. He was none of these. He was just an idiot. Poor girl was stuck in a room with the measles and him, an idiot who used the word “we.” How hard could it have been to use “you?” It was a very simple and easily remembered word. One syllable. It sounded like a letter in the alphabet for God's sake.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I have something for you.”

His whole body ducked for something at the side of the bed, which was his way of hiding, recovering, and to keep from blushing. Why did he still blush at 27?

He handed her a plastic bag full of DVDs. She took them out one by one, completely taken aback.

“Dirty Dancing, Footloose, Flashdance…” She was bemused. “Feeling nostalgic for the eighties, are we?”

“They’re dance movies. We’re going to be marathoning them.”

Gwen mouthed, ‘Oh,’ the plausibility and potential fun-having in the idea sinking in. A slightly dreamy, but mostly amused look settled on her face. Her fingers unthinkingly started to scratch at the skin above her elbow.

“Oi,” Arthur warned, gently swiping at her fingers, “take it out on Merlin.”

Gwen huffed, cross at being scolded at when she’d been so good all this time. It probably was exasperating having to be so good all the time. “Scratching a teddy bear isn’t going to help, Arthur.”

“I wasn’t talking about the bear.”

*

They’d just gotten to the part where Jennifer Grey finished going on about being afraid of never ever feeling what she felt when she was with Patrick Swayze. Or something like that. Arthur really didn’t know what was happening. Patrick didn’t have a shirt on.

Was that necessary, by the way? He glanced at Gwen. Apparently so.

Gwen whispered at him, like they were actually in the back of a theater, “You must really relate to Baby as a character. Poor little rich girl who just wants to have fun.”

Touché, Gwen. Did that make her Patrick Swayze? He wasn’t going to actually say that out loud. He’d already said “we” out loud, and there’d be no returning if he compared her to Patrick Swayze.

Except within seconds, they were both giggling at the slow dancing that eventually turned into even slower dimly lit sex. Gwen started it, the giggling, that is, pursing her lips, brows nit, eyes squinting and breathy snorts that turned into giggles. At least, she could blame it on being ill and delirious.

*

They fell asleep halfway through Footloose, no offense intended to Footloose. It was late.

She woke up when the snoring started, pressing the bear Merlin against her ear to quiet the sound. Their faces were close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. He was a terrible, awful snorer, like a wounded rhino and maybe one of Jane’s chimpanzees for good measure.

“Arthur!”

His eyes snapped open in alarm and stared back at her, “What is it? Are you alright?” He lifted his hand to feel her forehead for fever. She was starting to feel badly about having to tell him.

“Well.” She looked down and then hesitantly up back at him. “You snore.”

“I… do not.”

He was so indignant! His jaw actually dropped, head bobbing a little, beady eyes looking testily at her in the dark, while half his face was still smushed against the pillow. And all she could do was just smile even wider, totally endeared by it, nodding at him earnestly. “You do.”

*

Eventually, after a good minute and half of bickering in total darkness, he had offered to sleep on the couch or even in Merlin’s room. No hard feelings. It was the sensible thing at this point. She insisted against it, which in retrospect might have seemed clingy, literally, and she hoped to God he didn’t read into it. Gwen suspected that he was honestly too tired to make anything of it.

She just didn’t want to be rude. It was the principle of the thing. They started the night together and somehow they’d make it to the end. Also, she had Arthur sort through her things for ear plugs from the last year of Uni. The radiator in her room was louder than Arthur’s snoring, as impossible as that might seem.

He didn’t mind looking.

Hours later, they were both still sleeping when sunlight swelled against the bed sheets, his arms drawing her closer, her back to his front, to keep her from the cold of the room. Her eyes opened, the sleep in them making everything near seem slow, hazy, gleaming.

Peacefully, she smiled and returned to her dreams.


End file.
